But he’s always been sweet to the poodles

Dr William Oddie, lately editor of the Catholic Herald, was appointed by Conrad Black, and kept on in the job after libelling, rather expensively, my friend Stephen Bates, of the Guardian. He was only forced to retire last year, through a combination of ill-health and homophobia: the strenuous unpleasantness of his writings on gay priests and bishops proved intolerable to one of the shareholders, a gay Catholic businessman. So Oddie has reason to be grateful to Conrad Black. Even so, his column today is bizarre:

Lord Black’s ordeal has elicited two quite distinct kinds of media reaction. The predominant tone, I note with contempt, is one of unabashed Schadenfreude, most obviously in papers like The Independent and The Guardian, whose pleasure at the difficulties of this great and lovable man is barely disguised. Most disgusting of all, however,, has been the action, reported in the Evening Standard’s Diary column, of a journalist who writes for one of the papers Lord Black still owns. The Standard does not name him, but it is fairly clear who it is; at any rate, he is a fellow member of the Beefsteak club, who has entered in the club’s betting book a wager of £100 that Lord Black will be behind bars by the end of next year.

When I see such stuff, my reaction is a horrid amalgam of impotent fury and a sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach. Can such a thing really be possible? I do not trust the American courts not to do to him what they have done to the surely entirely harmless Martha Stewart: there is currently an unhealthy lust for scapegoats drawn from the mighty of corporate America, as we saw with the. almost Jacobin glee with which he was humiliated recently by. the judge in his Delaware court appearance.

Such an outcome would be a horrible victory for everything in modem society which is mean and destructive, for all the nasty little creeps who resent those who are just bigger men than they are

You see, Dr Oddie knows Conrad, and talked to him often: “He said that if ever I had any difficulties, or simply felt depressed or discouraged, I was to telephone him at the Telegraph. When I. did, I was always put through straight away, except on one occasion, when he was out of the country. ‘ I mentally shrugged my shoulders and asked when he would be back, But the following morning, a call came through from Conrad’s limo; he was on his way to a meeting in downtown Toronto.”

It seems entirely to have escaped Dr Oddie’s attention that Conrad is not threatened with jail because he phones his editors too often, or even because he fails to answer when they ring him with their problems, but because he is accused of stealing something between twenty and a hundred and twenty million dollars from the shareholders. Obviously, this is a bagatelle compared to the virtue demonstrated by answering the phone whenever Dr Oddie rings him, but I fear that the former editor of the Catholic Herald will have to go to Delaware to make this point of moral philosophy in person to the jury, who may otherwise overlook an important facet of the case.

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Dear Abbyy

Software inefficiency can always outpace Moore’s Law. — Jaron Lanier, quoted in Scott Rosenberg’s column today. This is one reason why I don’t tend to buy software, and,when I do buy it, it never runs faster than the thing it replaces. I really, seriously, have never had a program that looks up names and addresses as fast and fusslessly as a DOS TSR I used back in 1990, when collating the Best of the Independent book on a Compaq laptop with a gigantic 20 MB hard disk.

But the OCR program I use occasionally, TextBridge Pro 98 (the fruit of an ancient blag when writing for the Mail) has been getting slower and crankier with every improvement on the computer that runs it. So yesterday I tried a Russian program, Abbyy Finereader. Given the choice I would always buy a Russian program over an American one, because it’s more likely to have been written to run well than to sell well. I didn’t really want it to do anything more than output its results to the clipboard, something Textbridge refuses to do. Finereader will do that; but it also recognises at about three times the speed and twice the accuracy. So I’ll buy it.

I wonder if more software could be sold if it did the old job quicker, better, and with less fuss, rather than thinking up new jobs. I don’t suppose, though, that there’ll ever be a large enough sample of such programs to test the theory.

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Changing cases

Perhaps the single most irritating, because most brainless, bug in OOo is the one which means that changes of case are not preserved when exporting to other formats. This means that copy submitted in Word or Ascii (and what other formats are there?) is full of AMateuriSh CApitalisations which don’t show on the author’s screen but only on the recipients’. I’ve had a macro that fixes this for ages, but it only worked for words that started with unaccented letters. Now, under prodding from a Hungarian reader, F

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another dead phrase

I caught myself writing “It certainly seems likely” just now. Why? Is there any moment when this phrase is to be preferred to “it is likely” or “it seems likely”?

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Tales from the Arabian nights

Though horrendously frightening.

One story doing the rounds in my neighborhood was of a small girl who was abducted on the way back from school. A telephone call was made to her parents informing them that they had 10 days to gather the $10,000 ransom or they would never see her again. The mother fell into hysteria as their financial situation was so bad they had no hope of ever gathering such an amount. The poor father went round to his relatives and friends and managed to raise about $4000. On the 10th day, the kidnappers called and were told that this is all the family could raise. They slammed the phone down and the family were left fearing the worst. A few days later, one of the gang of kidnappers called the girl’s home late in the night and told them where they could find their daughter. He gave an address of a house in an industrial area of Baghdad which is particularly dangerous to walk through at nights. Apparently an argument had broken out between the gang and this man had enough of a conscience to call the family. The father went straight to the police, but they told him they would not come out with him at this late hour (it was about 2am) because they were too scared. The father resorted to calling a few friends and relatives who armed themselves and went to the address given. Upon entering, he found dozens of small children and young women in a large, dark room. He started calling out his daughter’s name and he heard her reply but as if being dragged away. He realised there was a staircase next to the room at the top of which some woman was trying to push his daughter. He got hold of his daughter and left the building, giving the police the entire details. Apparently some 20 families received their loved ones back when the police raided the building the next day. These stories are rife on the streets and provoke much fear, among the rich and poor equally.

(via)

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Open for business

Jonny Boatfield, a remarkable local artist, deserves to be better known (and better paid). He’s a fishing buddy of mine, and a cousin of my wife’s. So, as a holiday project, my daughter built him a web site. The World of Jonny Boatfield has opened up. He really is extraordinary, and worth a visit. I only wish we could fit the whole animal frieze on the site, but it would scroll for six feet to the right.

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Asia begins at the Landstraße

said Metternich and I used, when I stayed in Vienna, to walk to that dusty street to feel it. I couldn’t feel anything. But it’s still a wonderful sentence, in some ways unsurpassed until the morning of March 9th, 2004, when PNH wrote “$3 mass-market sci-fi/fantasy paperbacks are obviously no good, since as we all know, literature begins at $22.95.”

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The opposite of support

Sometimes I think that anyone who has ever used Linux should be banned from any contact with the public. The trouble is that they can almost communicate with normal humans. They use the same words. But they only have one message. Whatever the problem, their answer is “use Linux”; I’d simply add that if the answer to your problem is in fact Linux, you need professional help.

This comes up frequently on the Openoffice mailing lists. Someone will ask about compatibility with Word, and get a long lecture about the wickedness of proprietary file formats, the superiority of OOo’s native format and how they need to send the file as a PDF, or send the recipient a copy of openoffice, or any number of damn fool things like that, when all the poor fish wants to know is how to save as .doc files.

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Performance

If anyone is reading this in the neighbourhood of Bath and Bristol, do come along to the two shows I am doing at the Bath Literary Festival tomorrow. There is a talk at 4.30pm in the Guildhall, which I think I shall call “The Selfish Phenotype”; and, between 7.30 and 8.30, in the same place, Alison Jolly and Elaine Morgan will discuss sociobiology, evolutionary psychology, socialism and anything else they feel like: I will attempt not to get in the way as chairman.

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a tasteless anecdote

In my hotel brochure in Jerusalem there was a story about a sculptor, the daughter of a holocaust survivor. Almost all her mother’s Polish family had been killed — Grandpa had gasoline injected into his vein; one brother was made with a bunch of other starving children (described as ‘Muslims’) to run round a table full of food, and anyone who touched it was shot. I have to say that I found these stories suspiciciously individual and interesting. I don’t doubt for a moment the fact of the holocaust, but the overwhelming majority of those 6m deaths were without melodrama or special cruelty. That was the point. Murder became an industrialised routine.

I watched half Shoah; I couldn’t sleep for two nights afterwards, and never managed to watch the second half; and what I remember most is that the haunted faces belonged to the survivors. The perpetrators’ faces had the fleshy stolidity of candlewax. Only the people who had suffered there could not forget the evil. It’s not just that we can’t look straight at the horrors of the world: we can’t see them straight, either.

A peculiarly grim example of this was supplied at the end of the story. The sculptor’s mother had survived Auschwitz, and had discovered, thirty years after the war, that one of her brothers had too. They had been reunited, which was horrible, in some ways, for both of them. But after that, her children had prayed that God relieve her of her tormenting memories. And, the article continued, their prayers had been partly answered: she had developed Alzheimer’s. So now she can’t remember what happened last week, but the holocaust is still vivid to her.

I don’t know whether it is worse that this story should be told as if it justified prayer, or that it should be told in a hotel brochure, whose purpose is to drive tourism.

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